XVUnder the Shell ShowerStill the attack did not take place and still we were staying on and getting very tired.On the morning and afternoon of the twentieth, I made several trips to Houdremont. Late in the afternoon we heard that the long delayed and much heralded attack would start that night. As I was returning to Houdremont about five o’clock, Stevenson instructed me to wait there until midnight for wounded and then to return and go off duty.At dusk began the most terrific artillery firing that I had ever heard. There was not a second’s cessation in the firing—it was as continual and rapid as the rolling of a snare drum. Standing on the hill in front of the poste de secours at Houdrement in front of the French guns the shells were slipping through the air; that is the way they sounded, as if they were being shot along greased planes. I not only heard the departing shells, I actually saw them—black spots flying through space. At first I was sceptical. I thought perhaps my vision had become impaired or perhaps it was the effect of deranged nerves, but I asked White if he could see what I did and he said he could. Night came on and soon the men in the trenches would “go over the top” for the final rush. If it was a strain for us, the waiting must have been a most terrible strain for them. There were several other cars besides mine at Houdrement as night came on, but I would be the last to leave. Stretcher bearers, their faces set and worn, came in bearing wounded.Patterson’s car was loaded and he started back over the bombarded road for Beveaux. Hanna’s car was loaded and he started back. White’s car was loaded and at the foot of the hill his car broke down and under shrapnel fire the wounded were transferred to another car. Kirtsburg’s car was loaded and he started back. Then I was the only one left. I sat down beside a stretcher bearer and we smoked in silence. The waiting seemed unbearable, listening to the ceaseless thunder of the guns. I fully realized, when I did start, just what I must pass through to get back to the hospital at Beveaux, nearly ten miles away. I wondered how much longer I must wait. I began to realize for the first time how men were glad to be slightly wounded in order to get out of that hell. Pieces of shell were spattering around where we sat, so we went inside underground. A soldier who had been brought in just a little while before was raving and fighting—he had gone insane. Gendarmes threw him to the floor.At ten o’clock an operation was being performed, and as we stood close to the operating table, my friend the stretcher bearer brought me a cup of tea. I thought at the moment the strain of waiting to go into the inferno outside was the worst experience I had ever known. But at last the time came—my ambulance was loaded and I started back—not by way of Bras, because gas was coming in and settling in the lowlands, but up a steep long hill which at least would be comparatively free from gas—every inch of the way passing artillery pounding incessantly, so that I could not distinguish the difference between the sound of arriving and departing shells. The flashes of fire in my face were so blinding that I was obliged time and again to pause and get my bearings, to avoid running off the road.Three times while pulling up that long hill, the engine of my car stalled and I would climb over the wounded soldier sitting by my side and get the engine started again. I felt fatigued almost to the breaking point. I felt sure that if I reached Beveaux I would be physically unable to drive again that night. I thought of the weary, drawn faces of those stretcher bearers back at Houdremont, silently going out and silently returning with their burdens. I thought of my own face. This was not vanity—it was simply that my face seemed to pinch at the cheek bones.Illustration: Where Men Live Like RatsWhere Men Live Like Rats and With ThemOn I went until my car, jerking and limping on three cylinders, drew up on the grounds at the Beveaux hospital. But after the car had stopped, it still seemed to be moving. Others told me they had experienced the same sensation, when they had almost reached the point of exhaustion.I walked over to our dining tent—stumbled over a guy rope and went inside. I had absolute confidence in the forethought of Stevenson. I struck a match, found some cold meat, a piece of bread and a cup of pinard; then I tumbled into my cot.All along the front I could hear the incessant pounding of the guns, like the rolling of a snare drum, and then I fell asleep.
Still the attack did not take place and still we were staying on and getting very tired.
On the morning and afternoon of the twentieth, I made several trips to Houdremont. Late in the afternoon we heard that the long delayed and much heralded attack would start that night. As I was returning to Houdremont about five o’clock, Stevenson instructed me to wait there until midnight for wounded and then to return and go off duty.
At dusk began the most terrific artillery firing that I had ever heard. There was not a second’s cessation in the firing—it was as continual and rapid as the rolling of a snare drum. Standing on the hill in front of the poste de secours at Houdrement in front of the French guns the shells were slipping through the air; that is the way they sounded, as if they were being shot along greased planes. I not only heard the departing shells, I actually saw them—black spots flying through space. At first I was sceptical. I thought perhaps my vision had become impaired or perhaps it was the effect of deranged nerves, but I asked White if he could see what I did and he said he could. Night came on and soon the men in the trenches would “go over the top” for the final rush. If it was a strain for us, the waiting must have been a most terrible strain for them. There were several other cars besides mine at Houdrement as night came on, but I would be the last to leave. Stretcher bearers, their faces set and worn, came in bearing wounded.
Patterson’s car was loaded and he started back over the bombarded road for Beveaux. Hanna’s car was loaded and he started back. White’s car was loaded and at the foot of the hill his car broke down and under shrapnel fire the wounded were transferred to another car. Kirtsburg’s car was loaded and he started back. Then I was the only one left. I sat down beside a stretcher bearer and we smoked in silence. The waiting seemed unbearable, listening to the ceaseless thunder of the guns. I fully realized, when I did start, just what I must pass through to get back to the hospital at Beveaux, nearly ten miles away. I wondered how much longer I must wait. I began to realize for the first time how men were glad to be slightly wounded in order to get out of that hell. Pieces of shell were spattering around where we sat, so we went inside underground. A soldier who had been brought in just a little while before was raving and fighting—he had gone insane. Gendarmes threw him to the floor.
At ten o’clock an operation was being performed, and as we stood close to the operating table, my friend the stretcher bearer brought me a cup of tea. I thought at the moment the strain of waiting to go into the inferno outside was the worst experience I had ever known. But at last the time came—my ambulance was loaded and I started back—not by way of Bras, because gas was coming in and settling in the lowlands, but up a steep long hill which at least would be comparatively free from gas—every inch of the way passing artillery pounding incessantly, so that I could not distinguish the difference between the sound of arriving and departing shells. The flashes of fire in my face were so blinding that I was obliged time and again to pause and get my bearings, to avoid running off the road.
Three times while pulling up that long hill, the engine of my car stalled and I would climb over the wounded soldier sitting by my side and get the engine started again. I felt fatigued almost to the breaking point. I felt sure that if I reached Beveaux I would be physically unable to drive again that night. I thought of the weary, drawn faces of those stretcher bearers back at Houdremont, silently going out and silently returning with their burdens. I thought of my own face. This was not vanity—it was simply that my face seemed to pinch at the cheek bones.
Illustration: Where Men Live Like RatsWhere Men Live Like Rats and With Them
Where Men Live Like Rats and With Them
On I went until my car, jerking and limping on three cylinders, drew up on the grounds at the Beveaux hospital. But after the car had stopped, it still seemed to be moving. Others told me they had experienced the same sensation, when they had almost reached the point of exhaustion.
I walked over to our dining tent—stumbled over a guy rope and went inside. I had absolute confidence in the forethought of Stevenson. I struck a match, found some cold meat, a piece of bread and a cup of pinard; then I tumbled into my cot.
All along the front I could hear the incessant pounding of the guns, like the rolling of a snare drum, and then I fell asleep.